


Drift

by PaP



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Amy superimposes her own problems on titties, But it ultimately means nothing, Depression, Everything Hurts, Feeling adrift and alone, Gen, In a sea of our own design, Loneliness, Objectification, Older Characters, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Um actually it's very artsy and serious m'kay thanks, Unrequited Love, We can pretend if it helps, Writing on the Body, that's it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaP/pseuds/PaP
Summary: See me and see through me.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Drift

Amy has lost count of the number of literal roses that have been thrust at her face since she became famous for being beautiful, almost as famous as she’s become for being heroic. She’s capable of fending off these advances on her own, though she does say very kind things to the burly men in suits who try their best to hurry her along before a thorn might nick her skin, and yet an unusual item slips between their broad shoulders.

“Amy! God, Amy, please see me!”

She can hear a broken heart in that hoarse scream. It’s almost as tangible as the marker held before her nose, jabbing for attention, its identifying label turned the other way.

“Amy! I love you!”

Despite the frustration of the superfluous bodyguards, she takes the marker and stares into the face that has been unevenly dyed pink, hair chopped short with passionate disorder, evidently intended to resemble her without quite the same fashion sense and grooming and possibly overall sanity.

“Oh! Oh, god! You–

She’s surprisingly calm in the face of frantic devotion. It might have to do with the loneliness she sees in those eyes, bloodshot with tears but also very likely irritated by the green contact lenses.

“You see me?”

“Hi.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

She smiles one of her glossy smiles, like on the magazines, and waits to sign something, marker in hand.

“I love you! Amy!”

“I love you, too, sweetie. Where can I–?”

“My tits!”

“Huh?”

“Sign my tits!”

Marker poised and expression turned politely bemused, she opens and closes her mouth briefly, gathering her words, then gathers her voice and yells over the commotion of her adoring fan base, “I’m sorry, sweetie,” wincing in the blinding confusion of camera flashes and tortured smiles, “say that again?”

“My tits!” the woman screams. “Sign ’em!”

“Your tits?”

“My tits!”

“You want me to–?”

“Sign me!” This fan seems close to tears. “Please!”

“Uh.”

“It’ll make my life worth living!”

The hedgehog stares into the scarred soul of this fan and wonders how many other confused women are just like this one, in this crowd, coming to see Amy Rose. Starving sailors in their tiny boats all alone, searching through the fog for a beautiful lighthouse of some feminine ideal, to guide their tired lives across a sea of being unnoticed, unwanted, undesirable, unloved.

“Own me, Amy!”

“Hell.” She unscrews the cap with a shrug. “Sure?”

“Thank you, oh my god!”

The marker touches skin.

The fan seems close to orgasm.

It proves difficult, but Amy leans into the strange woman’s admirable bust and, blushing profusely, neatly scribes her name and a brief message of hope and affection because that feels like the right thing to add to such a hopeful name, barely finishing a cute little heart at the end to add some sort of poultry personality to a brand, before the burly men finally nudge her to safety. She’d wanted to get the woman’s name, too, but she barely gets to jam the cap back on before slipping the marker into the crevice between those marked breasts, since this fan has buried her hands uselessly in her cropped hair and won’t take it for herself.

“Aaaah! Amy! I love you! Oh! Oh!”

“Bye,” the hedgehog mutters, waving stiffly from over her shoulder.

That does, indeed, seem to be an orgasm that is happening, back there, as others in the crowd threaten to tear the one lucky fan apart.

* * *

“Damn, that is weird.”

“It was a long day.”

“But, at least boobs, right?”

“Yes, at least.”

Sonic chuckles warmly and sets the beer can in Amy’s waiting hand, the hand that wielded the marker like a feather, scrawling a fond touch of recognition over willing flesh.

“Boobs.”

“Reminds me.” The blue hedgehog falls into the old chair opposite, well-worn and comfortable and stained in places, an artifact he picked up second-hand despite the pink hedgehog’s sneer, and she lets him keep it here, in her home, because his place is so small, but she doesn’t touch it, she only keeps it safe for him because he's Sonic and she's Amy and he does take certain advantages. “Didya give Rouge a call?”

“No.”

“Did you… give anyone a call, recently?”

“No.”

“Maybe consider it. No pressure, just–”

“I know, I know.”

Sonic watches Amy drag her hand through her quills, fatigued and apologetic.

“God, I suck.”

“Nah, you’re busy. Bein' a hero takes it outta us all.”

“Amy, dear,” comes the sardonic drawl, “you can’t forget your friends. That’s mean.”

“Do you refer to yourself in the third person, now?” is the playful reply, meant to alleviate guilt through humour.

“Helps me cope.” Pink brows bend under the weight of heavy thoughts. “I’m giving myself a stern lecture so I’ll feel like I’m likely to change, see? So I won’t be such a shitty friend, anymore.”

“Darling, don’t beat yourself up. We get it. Heroes get worn out."

"You never did."

"Not true."

"Whatever, you've always been better at this than me."

"Amy, what you’re going through… You’ve been through a lot.”

“I’m living the life, now, Sonic, and I thought being famous would be fun when I was a dumbass kid, but I still haven't got married and I still don't have a dumbass kid of my own and kinda hate it, this life I'm living.”

“Amy.”

“Sonic, you get to say that, sure, all that comforting, forgiving stuff. You get to say it. You’re, like, the only person I regularly speak to, anymore. You're always nice to me."

"No, I haven't always been."

"Shuddup. You're here for me and you're the only one I can be with, right now."

"Our friends love you, but nobody's pushing you before you're ready. Take it easy on yourself."

"Do I really deserve all that? At least, you’re the one I can tolerate who isn’t some fancy-pants sorta person, wanting to sign a contract with me, but half the time I do spend talking to you I only spend because you help yourself to my place and my beer. And that fucking chair.”

“You'd understand," he purrs teasingly, winking. "If you'd only sit in it.” 

"Hell, no."

"Then don't judge."

"It's so gross, though."

"It's comfy."

She takes a steadying sip, head in her hand, and narrows her gorgeous green eyes on his.

“Amy, be nice to yourself, even if you don't want to."

"I need to get over myself someday, Sonic, but I dunno what's even wrong with me. I'm not sure how to approach myself. Nice or not."

"You'll figure it out. And there are resources. There's me."

"Thanks, sweetie. I know. I'm just, well, I dunno."

"You're a good, worthwhile person."

"That's what everybody says."

"I love you.”

“Mm.”

He waits, patient, for her to inevitably fall victim to those words, as they sink into her bruised and broken heart.

After another sip, she lowers the beer can, expression becoming precious in its simple hurt. “Sonic.”

A blink, emeralds momentarily veiled, flickering moistly upon their reveal. "Amy." He misses her. He doesn't entirely like this person she's been crushed into being, shaped crookedly and prettily by the pressure of everyone else's adoration and criticism.

“I love you, too.”

He has so many things stored in his heart. Her words are like a hammer smashing the doors inward, buckling them in painful splinters. So many things he’d like to say, if only he–

“Ah, fuck.”

“Huh?"

Sinking deeper into her seat, she casts a dying look at the window.

"Amy?"

“Hahaha.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The marker, Sonic. God. I'm such an idiot.”

He turns to where she looks, tries to see what she sees, failing to realise that she’s not seeing anything in particular.

“I just realised, I never checked.”

He hears her sigh, then the strain in her words.

“The marker.”

He hears her grip tighten around the can, buckling the fragile metal, inward.

“Was it permanent?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm out of ideas.


End file.
